Old Masters
by petriichor
Summary: Her hand, still held in his, instinctively jerked back towards its owner, but he held her fingers tight. He was only momentarily startled that even somebody with a kind, he hoped, demeanor would shudder so involuntarily at the Malfoy name. When she had disappeared, Draco magicked his eyes back to gray. / non-compliant post Order of the Phoenix.
1. Chapter 1

Hermione stepped out of her parent's car with delight, her shoulders warmed by the summer sun that sat high above muggle Paris. Since she could talk her parents would take her to any museum of her choosing. As she grew older they promised her they would not complain about how long she spent ogling the masters. Hermione, being prone to spending hours in one exhibit, couldn't have been happier with their generosity.

She'd never been to the Musée D'Orsay in Paris before, and the smell of dahlia blooms and coffee, with undertones of heavy smoke, invigorated her senses and excited her to no end. 'Paris in the summer was lovely if not a little hot,' Hermione decided as she waited for her mother to spread sunscreen on her shoulders despite the fact they were only a short walk from the indoor museum.

The last time the Grangers visited Paris Hermione was only grazing 7 years old and it was her parent's tenth wedding anniversary. Having yet to discover that magic coursed through her veins Hermione had no prior knowledge of the wizarding wings of Paris' most famous art collections. The Louvre hosted an impressive amount of ancient wizarding artifacts and the National History Museum's collection of ancient magical species put Great Britain's to shame, but what she was most interested in was Vincent van Gogh's secret works.

Having only being discovered to be a wizard after his death, the wizarding world was the true reason for the muggle fascination in Vincent van Gogh. Thanks to the interest of wizarding art curators (who frequently worked in tandem with muggle ones to acquire pieces) the very community that denounced van Gogh's talents felt left out of the hype and were all too happy to join in. It was a lucky thing wizards saw the paintings' value first, or the Statute of Secrecy might have been in trouble. Where muggles now see Starry Night as a swirling sky in stasis, the wizarding community sees the paint move and combine in a looping spell that van Gogh had invented. At the age of thirteen when the Grangers visited the Museum of Modern Art in New York City, Hermione couldn't stop raving about the painting's magical qualities while her parents nodded, unable to fully appreciate it's beauty.

Hermione clutched her copy of Wizarding Masters of Impressionism in her hands as her family crossed a bridge covered in locks. 'Nobody pays any respect to tradition', Hermione thought, 'they'll put locks on any bridge if they hear a bridge will safeguard love. This is not even the love bridge'. Despite her disdain for the misunderstanding of tradition, Hermione gazed at the locks longingly. Perhaps someday she would be so lucky as to have somebody of her own to pledge eternal love to. Maybe then she and her love would put their lock on the real "love bridge", the one that had been erected by French wizarding royalty in order to preserve the arranged matches and spur real love deep within the hearts of the pair. The French wizarding royalty of old were far more sentimental than the British.

Or at least they meant to be.

"Go ahead, go ahead, we will just be looking at the muses by the regular van Gogh's." Her father said, hiding the small disappointment he always felt whenever his little witch got to experience the finest treats he would never get to taste.

Hermione, grateful as always that she had such understanding and culturally interested parents, hurried ahead to the secret entrance to the Musée aux Sorcières d'Orsay. Impatiently, she waited behind a group of South Korean tourists who had become enraptured with the bronze cast of the entrance: Rodin's The Gates of Hell. When she was sure they had moved on, and that no muggle was looking her way, she stepped up onto the display and disappeared through the doors which functioned as Platform 9 3/4 did every September.

Hermione gasped as she found herself in a grand hall much like the museum's main muggle hall which was a converted train station affixed with a glass ceiling. The wizarding hall was far larger and housed immense works of art along its perimeter overlooking giantesque statues within the space that would have once been train tracks. Immediately Hermione was drawn to the statue of The Thinker that sat most prominently in the center of the floor.

She'd been to the muggle Musée Rodin before and could quite clearly remember the bronze cast of Le Penseur, or The Thinker amidst lush hedges and pebbles that tinkled like faerie bells. If Hermione was to be honest it was little underwhelming and too high up on a bronze pillar to be truly appreciated. 'Though', she thought, 'that may have been the point'. But this statue was far larger. If he stood Hermione thought he would be able to strike up a conversation with the American Statue of Liberty and not be dwarfed in the least. At this thought The Thinker paused his introspective deliberating and looked up to meet Hermione's eyes, giving her a curt nod before returning to his eternal pondering. Hermione couldn't help the bubble of laughter that burst from her chest.

This was truly magical.

Grinning, she turned her attention to the right-hand exhibits, where van Gogh's most magical work was on display. There were not many other witches or wizards in the museum at this time of day. In the summer the businesses in wizarding London got a week or so break from work at their own discretion, even the Ministry (with the exception of the Aurors and other necessary departments). It was modeled after the muggle House of Common's recesses. Hermione thought it was a bit daft and, apparently, the French agreed as while wizarding London was in the middle of this summer's work holiday, the French were still busy as bees. Hermione was admirable and grateful for their work ethic, she greatly enjoyed the click of her shoe on the pristine white marble floor. It allowed her to be solely with her thoughts as she gazed into van Gogh's landscapes, shuffling around in a semi-circle to see the fields hidden behind the frames. Wizarding paintings were like those 3D muggle postcards that moved slightly at different angles when you moved you could see more. Hermione only wished she could see the expression of the artists.

After a fair while of gazing through cornfields and trying to peer through painted glass, Hermione moved through the side halls towards the interesting sound of boisterous conversation that she could only assume was from van Gogh's lost portraits. Though she adored his melancholy static paintings, she'd read enough in Wizarding Masters of Impressionism to know that this was not the true disposition of poor Vincent.

He had been a joyous child, gifted in magic, but being born to muggle farmers he had been too poor to attend Beauxbatons Academie de la Magie. This resulted in a catastrophic internalization of his magic until the age of seventeen that labeled him a "touched" child. Albus Dumbledore himself had heard, from the village kook or soothsayer, of the talented young artist and offered personal tutelage over one summer. Van Gogh, having harbored intense magical abilities, took to the lessons like a fish to water and excelled greatly under Dumbledore's advisory. When Dumbledore returned to Hogwarts for the fall semester, van Gogh continued to experiment with magic. Working blindly, as he didn't have the money nor accessibility to purchase any spellbooks other than the those Dumbledore had left behind, he inevitably invented a number of spells that were unique to himself and still were to this day. As far as any modern wizard knew these spells extended only to his art, though Hermione believed he probably invented a number of other spells to aid him day to day as his health deteriorated. No wizard knew exactly what his incantations or wand-work had been, but their effects had been successfully replicated and today these effects were staples in magical art.

When she made it to the room that bustled with laughter, all eyes turned to her. Hermione squeaked when the room went silent and four Vincents, three anonymous women, and the kind eyes of Albus Dumbledore gazed down at her. These portraits were a good lot larger than the work that was displayed in van Gogh's muggle wing, and the bright blue eyes of the most central Vincent pierced her soul.

"Miss Granger," murmured Dumbledore from her right. "I was wondering when I'd see you here. Always on a quest for knowledge."

"Ah is this the young one who has befriended Harry Potter?"

Hermione's eyes widened as she realized that van Gogh, or rather his portrait, knew of her and her friends. Then again, the headmaster did quite curiously have his own portrait on his desk. She assumed it connected to this portrait, and that this was why Vincent van Gogh knew her.

"Yes, sir."

"It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance," chorused all four van Gogh's from their spots around the room. Hermione couldn't hold back a smile. Vincent quite reminded her of the Weasley twins, she wondered whether or not they were distantly related. Especially when one of the van Gogh's sent a wink flying across the room and the three unidentified women swooned against their frames.

"Miss Granger, I was quite impressed with your O.W.L.s, disrupted though they may have been." smiled Professor Dumbledore. His bright eyes twinkled dangerously.

"Thank you, Professor." Hermione fell back into silence as the portraits struck up their old conversation once more, the portrait of Dumbledore excusing himself a moment in and disappearing to the side of his frame. She was suddenly struck with an awkward feeling, unsure of how to truly appreciate the intricacy of the portraits without invading the space of the van Gogh's and the women. Unsure of how to continue, she bowed out of the room respectfully and found herself crashing into another person as she made her way through the doorframe to the main atrium.

"Oh, I am so sorry. I really didn't mean –" Hermione stumbled getting back up, standing tall before she realized her book had skidded across the marble and shuffled to retrieve it.

"Young lady, do watch where you throw your things. We are fine art!" Her book lay at the feel of a sculpture labeled Vanity.

"So sorry," muttered Hermione as she scooped the book up and turned to properly apologize to whomever she had clobbered.

The man still sat on the ground, dusting his hands of imaginary dirt and clambering to his feet. Dressed in simple but fashionable muggle clothing, the man had an air of aristocracy about him. As he stood, the sun filtering through the ceiling seemed to hit his head of chestnut hair just so, and he appeared to have an ethereal halo before he straightened, brushed his hair out of his eyes and Hermione caught sight of his face.

"Granger?" He stuttered, surprised to be taking in the familiar girl. He noted with disdain that she was not so dull during the summer. She was sporting a nice color and had tamed her unruly hair into a French braid. She wasn't wearing the plain things muggles called jeans either. She had on a quite lovely dress he was sure he'd seen at Le Gallerie Lafayette just a few days before. This Granger was not so familiar, then.

"I'm sorry, do I know you?" She frowned at the man, though he wasn't quite a man. He was more of a boy, though he was tall and lean. She recognized something about him, he had a face that she was sure she'd seen. Maybe he went to Hogwarts, a Hufflepuff quite possibly. She didn't know too many male Hufflepuffs, and the ones she knew were blonde, not brunet. But his eyes, they were surely in her memory somewhere. She knew those eyes. 'Where do I know them from?'

The man, no boy, regarded her with narrowed eyes. Hermione felt a protective need to cover herself lest he be able to see straight through her like a ghost. Perhaps she'd met him at the Quidditch World Cup, or in Diagon Alley. Maybe he had seen the Daily Prophet back in their fourth year, when she'd been pictured beside Harry in the Champions tent. Though that was a while ago, and it didn't explain why she knew his eyes, it was a good guess – because he had seen that issue.

"You don't– ?" He chuckled lightly to himself, amused when he caught sight of his hair color from his peripheral vision. He turned his face out of her view, muttering a charm under his breath, and when he turned back to Hermione, she didn't recognize his eyes anymore.

"Well, you know I'm Hermione Granger, and ... you are?" She extended her hand hesitantly, keeping watch of his eyes. She was unsure of him, and yet she didn't feel immediately threatened, nor did she feel unsafe as she had read of the museum's protective charms.

Even if somehow the museum's charms weren't as strong as they boasted, Hermione had learned quickly after the Battle of the Department of Mysteries that you can never be too wary, and that she shouldn't leave her wand at home when exploring muggle surroundings in the summers. She may not legally be able to do magic outside school yet, but the protection of herself and her family was now a priority since Voldemort and his following had, most definitely, returned.

"Philip Mal-" He paused, realizing only too late that he'd spoken his cousins name as a cover and reached to shake her hand. "Philip Malfoy."

"Malfoy?" Her hand, still held in his, instinctively jerked back towards its owner, but he held her fingers tight. He was only momentarily startled that even somebody with a kind, he hoped, demeanor would shudder so involuntarily at the Malfoy name.

"I'm sorry to have startled you, Hermione. It's only ... you so resemble my cousin's description."

"And your cousin is Draco Malfoy?" Hermione scowled at his mention, something that Philip noticed with chagrin. That certainly wasn't the respect his family had always vied for. However, this girl was a muggle-born.

"Yes." he sighed.

"Oh," Hermione took her hand back. "Well, I'm sorry for crashing into you."

"It wasn't a big deal, don't worry. I had the same reaction the first time I was greeted by the van Gogh's." He smiled gently, though something in his eyes held an emotion Hermione couldn't place. It unnerved her that Malfoy's cousin – French cousin? No, that was surely a British accent – knew her by description. Not just by any description either as the only assured indication of her identity was her presence in a wizarding museum.

"Yes, they are a little intimidating, aren't they? I – I have to go. It was nice meeting you, Philip." Her mouth set into a frown once more, wondering why it had been so ... pleasant, for lack of right description, to meet the cousin of such a vile, evil boy. Surely he shared the same beliefs, as the Malfoy family seemed to be prejudiced against her sort of blood for as far back as the line went. Hermione shook her head gently, taking a step or two back from the boy.

"Should I say hi to my cousin for you?"

"No. Definitely not. We, well, I'm sure you know why." Hermione said finally, before turning on her heel and walking back to Rodin's gate.

When she had disappeared, Draco magicked his eyes back to gray. Little miss know-it-all Granger's memory wasn't as good as she thought, but why had he decided to hide?


	2. Chapter 2

The Drs. Granger watched Rodin's gate in horror as Hermione tumbled out in front of a school tour group. Clutching her husband's arm tightly, Helen Granger expected the magical police to scoop her daughter up in a flash of light, but no such thing came. Hermione quickly convinced the school group that she had been only kneeling down and they _hadn't_ seen her fall _out of_ the sculpture. Henry Granger grinned and patted his wife's hand as their daughter bounded over to them.

"Let's go." She muttered, tugging on her father's free arm.

"Hermione, dear, we haven't even gotten to the modernists yet. Surely we don't have to leave so soon." Despite her father's protest, his little witch continued to tug them towards the exit. Helen, all too happy to be leaving after Hermione's quick exit of the wizarding wing, obliged her daughter and helped in steering her husband past the gift shop.

Once they were safely standing by the Seine, Hermione let out the breath she'd been holding. She turned her head toward the sky, the sun heating her forehead and seeping through her closed eyelids to brighten her vision behind them.

She wondered why Philip was such a threatening being in her mind. He hadn't been anything but polite to her. Barrelling into him on a pleasant afternoon at the museum, wrongfully judging his character - well, that was debatable - and running away from him ontop of her _blood status_ meant Philip had no reason to be as courtly as he had been towards her.

She took a deep breath. Perhaps it was just the idea that his _cousin_ lead such a loathsome existence. Perhaps it was that just last year his _cousin_ had spearheaded the involvement of students in Umbridge's vile little plan. Perhaps it was the knowledge that the Malfoy family belonged to an elite society of racist aristocrats and _some_ of them even belonged to the very establishment that sought to kill everybody like Hermione.

' _Everybody who is_ _a mudblood.'_

Hermione tensed as a hand pressed between her shoulder blades and she glanced to her side only to see her mother.

"Hermione?"

"I'm fine, I'm fine." She smiled sweetly, shaking her head at her mother. "I am _starved_ though. Who's up for some lunch?"

* * *

In the Gryffindor frizzball's wake, Draco Malfoy found he had a lot to be grateful for. Namely that the Ministry was now under strong Death Eater influence _and_ that the desire to be a Malfoy was slowly diminishing. You can't get in trouble for underage magic if your father is the right-hand of the new leader of the magical world. Or, well, when your father still _thinks_ he's the right-hand man.

It wasn't that hard to see the signs. Ever since the Battle of the Department of Mysteries, it was clear to anybody that Lucius Malfoy was no longer a part of the inner circle. Even his _dear_ sister-in-law Bellatrix had noticed and was treating her extended family as some wannabe pureblood half-bloods. That's why Draco was in-the-know. He knew he was next in line for the mark, he'd heard the whispers, but until the day on which he receives it he was still… free. Free from the wrath of the Dark Lord, free to leave Britain for a summer's worth of release. It was coming, though. He _knew_ it was coming the second he returned from his holiday. All Draco wanted was a summer to be who he had been for years, free from pain and petty revenge. Thankfully the Malfoys to the south were not yet involved in the Dark Lord's reign of terror.

Draco had spent every summer before Hogwarts at his uncle's château in the Loire Valley, and every summer since he had sat in the dark Manor in Wiltshire listening to his father and Yaxley, or his father and Goyle, plan the return of _him._ In his younger years, Draco was proud of his father's importance. He didn't fully understand why Lucius was so important until little blood-traitor Ginny Weasley had nearly died in the hidden chambers of Slytherin, at the hand of the man that Draco would soon be taught was called the Dark _Lord_. It wasn't until Cedric Diggory was murdered that the young Malfoy knew what was coming. Those early summers spent learning Occlumency with his mother and godfather, those late summers spent learning Legilimency with his father and godfather, it started to make sense. After his father's disaster at the Ministry, it had been set in stone. Draco Malfoy was to become his father's redemption. If he succeeded at the Dark Lord's chosen task then _perhaps_ , only perhaps, would their family be spared from Lucius' shame in the new world.

His mother had been his savior. Narcissa, ever loyal to her family over establishment, had seen the growing fear in her baby boy and suggested to her husband that he would benefit from a visit to the south. Suggested may have been a soft description, but her maiden name wasn't Black for no reason.

Draco worshiped her. Though he wasn't unsympathetic to the cause, Draco simply wasn't ready. He'd been raised to believe in the purity of the blood that ran through his veins and he couldn't disagree that muggle-borns were dirty. It didn't make sense that such beauty as magical ability could spring from such … lesser beings. It wasn't as if wizard-kind and muggle-kind were completely different species, one was just better than the other. That's all he knew.

That's all he wanted to know.

He'd asked for a summer away from the Manor, from the unbearable sting of his Aunt's _Crucio_ , from his classmate's stares in Diagon Alley, and he'd run into _Hermione Granger_ of all people. Granger, the furball with a spongey brain who seemed to think she could make up for her blood with knowledge of a world she was _never_ meant to live in. He had _never_ been happier for the muggle world's innovations, especially in hair changing potions. If he'd gone to the _salon de coiffure_ by his family's Parisian apartment the news that the British Malfoy heir had decided to forgo the genetic-jackpot platinum locks would have spread like wildfire. It would've looked like he was _ashamed_ of his family lineage. That was the last thing he could afford. But he didn't like the stares, the royal treatment, he didn't _want_ that. Draco missed being as carefree as he'd been in the summers before Hogwarts. He missed being able to act his age, not being able to do what he wanted because of what was _expected_ of him. So he dyed his hair, and when Hermione Granger knocked him off his feet he lied to her. If all for the name of normalcy.

"Yoo-hoo! Hey, you alright?"

Draco snapped out of his thoughts, eyes sweeping over the hall until they landed on the sculpture of Vanity that had been so offended by a book at her base. He nodded at her with a tight lip, a hand going to rearrange the dark hair that sat above his browbone.

"Aren't you goin'ta come take a look?"

He shook his head and wandered toward the gate Hermione had fled through.

Once Draco had reached the armored rhinoceros just outside the entrance he spotted the frizzball, and who he assumed were her parents, about to cross le Pont Léopard Sedar Senghor. ' _Those locks,'_ remarked Draco bitterly, ' _Why don't muggles ever do their damn research.'_ He watched as Granger happily tugged at her parents, guiding them away from the vendors selling locks at 1 euro a pop. A tight grimace set itself firmly on his face, and Draco headed off in the opposite direction towards the nearest shop with a floo connection that he knew.


	3. Chapter 3

Draco appeared in his family's townhouse in a rush of green flame. Everything was quiet at this time of day, with most of the human staff out for lunch and his family taking lunch in the rooftop sun garden. Only the grandfather clock between the street-side windows dared to make a sound in the midday lull. He stepped out of the grate just as the clock's magical hands turned his portrait "home" and let out a chime that rumbled the foundation of the townhouse.

"Draco, darling! Have you had a nice morning at the museums?" His Aunt Adélaïde called, her voice projected through her home's levels. "Come up to us, Draco. Let's all sit and have lunch." Knowing he couldn't avoid dining with them very much longer this week, Draco acquiesced and with only a moment's hesitation in his step, he started towards the stairwell.

His aunt's metropolitan home was vastly different from the Manor. Whereas the manor was adorned in deep, green velvet and thick, heavy silk the homes of their southern relatives were made up in gold and cream, with taffeta and satin. At her home in the countryside, Madame Malfoy curated a rather impressive collection of magical landscapes depicting the vast fields of lavender and the shifting light through stained glass windows. The gardens outside the villa sat primly inside groomed hedges, charmed to shift and bristle in the breeze. The paths between the flowers and the edible garden his aunt insisted upon were filled with stones that tinkle like faerie singing. As a boy, Draco would pretend it was heaven. Both homes under the eye of Madame Malfoy let in so much natural light that the glow when met with the white-blond of the Malfoy clan could convince even a muggle of their divinity.

"My boy," his mother smiled brightly, getting up from her chair to embrace her son. Draco welcomed his mother's love, ever more aware that this serenity could no longer be accessed once he was dedicated to the Dark Lord's bidding.

"You're home quite early today, Draco."

"Yes, mother."

"How was the museum?"

"Quite pleasant, mother."

Narcissa pressed her lips into a smile, gesturing for her boy to join the others. She guided him gently, a hand between his shoulder blades, towards the available chair on her left. Of course, Narcissa knew the inner turmoil Draco was suffering. He was dedicated to the pureblood cause, as she was, but the darling boy was again like her in believing that death was a ridiculous punishment for being born _lesser_. She understood his recent obsession with art, it was something she herself had seen a passion for before the first war. It had become, for them both, a way to view pure beauty in an ever darkening world.

"Eat, dear." She urged gently after a moment of their relatives regarding Draco's curiously furrowed brow. Draco obliged, putting a few slices of apple and cheese upon the gold plate that appeared in front of him. Though it was clear his days felt easier in the French sun, he felt eyes on his shoulders wherever he went. His guise as Philip Malfoy, the cousin who now sat opposite him, was as good as any, yet it could never have fooled the family at the table. His aunt, who was decidedly neutral in the face of the war, understood why he wished for a discreet summer though her husband Armand Malfoy III, the loyal younger brother of Lucius Malfoy, believed Draco to be enthusiastically on par with the Dark Lord's plotting. He'd been convinced of Draco's loyalty to the cause by Narcissa after Draco had shown up to dinner in the early summer sporting a head of hair much like his own son's. However, Draco couldn't believe him to be persuaded.

For Armand Malfoy III to have born a son with brown hair was akin to a great shame. ' _Though'_ , he supposed, ' _that was the harm in marrying a French Avery,'_ as they all sported varying shades of brown; except his dear wife. When his eldest, Philip, was born mere months before his eldest brother's child, Draco, was born Lucius had merely laughed. Months later when Draco entered the world, Lucius laughed again: triumphant. When his brother's blonde prodigy arrived from a day with his aunt and mother with a head of brown, Armand wanted to laugh. ' _Lucius' pride would be destroyed._ ' was the thought on his mind as Narcissa pleaded her son's case.

"Draco, we had just been speaking of going to Monaco for the last week in the summer before school begins. Will you be coming with us or will you have to return to England early this year?" Armand spoke down his nose, never once taking his eyes off of the charcuteries laid before him. Narcissa's back straightened in her chair, if anything of the sort could happen with a woman so poised.

"I will, Uncle. Though that shouldn't prohibit me from spending the first half of the week there."

Armand's eyes snapped to his nephew's, a sly smile cracking his stiff expression.

"The rumours are true, then?"

"Armand, I don't believe this is quite the conversation for lunch," his wife grasped his wrist only to be shaken away.

"Nonsense, Draco here is about to join the family legacy."

Narcissa's lips compacted together as her son attempted a smile. With a curt nod and a glance at his cousin's expression, Draco returned to his food.

"You're really doing it?"

He had rarely heard his cousin speak at the table. Philip, as Draco had come to understand, was more averse to the dark treatment of muggle-born witches and wizards than any Malfoy heir before him. Though France had once been plump with pureblood families, most pure lines had been smeared to assumed half-blood status. As a result, hatred towards lesser blood families had never fully integrated into somewhat of a cultural norm as it had in Britain. Beauxbatons Academy, though regal and proper, had not made a point of separating blood classes since it's sister, Hogwarts, had been the downfall of muggle-born Myrtle Warren in 1943.

Philip, born early enough in the summer to now be heading into his seventh year at Beauxbatons, had been placed in the house of Adora Rouerie, who stood for a keen mind and tradition. He had been educated against the beliefs of his ancestors, and he reveled in it. Philip's best subjects had always been those based on muggle practices, much to his father's chagrin. Though Philip understood the importance of pure magical blood, thanks to his studies he sympathized with those half and muggle-born witches and wizards under attack, and truthfully saw more power in the light than in the dark. Grateful for his cousin's pure dark image, Philip had never been offered for the Dark Lord's services. As his own father was not so high on the totem, if Philip had been chosen he might not have survived it. Then again, after the Malfoy disappointment at the British Ministry, his cousin might not either.

Draco looked to his cousin's wide eyes, wishing Armand weren't present.

"I have no choice, do I?" The table jumped as the French Malfoy patriarch's fist collided with the glass table. "I am honored to be chosen." Draco tacked on, his words true.

It was certainly a great honor to be recognized as a capable wizard, especially at a young age. Though it was yet unforeseen to the Malfoy family as to whether or not the Dark Lord truly saw young Draco as such. Philip surmised it was an act of retribution.

"Well," spoke his aunt cheerily. "Would you boys like some dessert? I'll have Mimsy prepare a fresh _clafoutis_. The cherries at the market this morning were simply - _mwah -_ très belles." With a flair and without any protesting from the boys, Adélaïde swept away through the sunroom's doors in a flurry of lilac satin.

"I'm not a fan, therefore I'll be returning to the office. Draco, lovely you could make lunch this afternoon." Armand said sans expression. "Narcissa, lovely as always. Philip." He nodded before his slate gray robes followed by way of Adélaïde.

"How was the museum?" His cousin started gently. "You usually spend all day at them."

Draco smiled carefully. He didn't want his mother to know he usually avoided the family meals, she would have his head.

"I've been there many times, it was crowded today." He lied smoothly, reaching forward to retrieve an ornate ramekin filled with a chilled tomato soup and tarragon crème fraîche. French food was vastly better than English food.

"Perhaps we should take a trip to Normandy and go to Mont Saint-Michel. We haven't been since before school." Philip reached for the same dish.

"Oh Philip, that's a marvelous idea! Draco, do you remember the wizarding anti-chambers? You never wanted to leave," Narcissa reminisced, her manicured hand going to her son's shoulder. "When the tide came in and your father couldn't help but be pulled by the Siren songs." Her laugh filled the sunroom. "But that was before Siren habitats were regulated. Nevertheless, dears, you should surely go!"

Draco tilted his head to the side, considering his cousin's suggestion. It would prevent any extra run-ins with any classmates in town for a few days.

"Alright, alright Mother! You've sold me. Why don't we go this weekend?"

 _ **Authors Note:**_ **The information about Beauxbaton's is from .com**


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